


Two Can Play

by devovitsuasartes



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Break Up, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovitsuasartes/pseuds/devovitsuasartes
Summary: Canon-divergent take on season 10 in which Ian reconnects with Trevor after being dumped by Mickey, and Trevor offers to distract him from the break-up by taking him to a house party.A house party that Byron and Mickey also show up at.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Trevor, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 16
Kudos: 239





	Two Can Play

“Six to eight weeks? Fuck.”

“Fuck is right,” Ian said, slumping back into the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling. “Parole officer said I can’t drive an ambulance or do any EMT work until it heals. That’s six to eight weeks without pay. And I’m already broke from fucking Paula stealing my paycheck.”

“Fuck.” Lip scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Man, I’d loan you some money but I’ve got Fred, and…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Ian waved a hand. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe borrow from Debs or something.”

“Want me to break Mickey’s leg?” Lip offered. “Fair’s fair.”

“Maybe,” Ian said, only half-joking. Since the previous night, when he’d offered Mickey the promise ring and begged him to come back only to get shot down, there had been some serious anger starting to boil up amid Ian’s sadness and contrition. 

He just wanted things to go back to the way they were. Fucking Paula. Screwing him over in life, and now in death as well. If she hadn’t gotten herself murdered, the whole marriage thing would have never come up. It had gone from being a distant milestone to a relationship dealbreaker so fast that Ian’s head was still spinning.

Suddenly sick of being stuck in the house, and remembering that he needed to fill his prescription, Ian got up off the couch (with Lip’s help) and hobbled to the front door on his crutches. Throwing a farewell over his shoulder, he began the arduous process of getting down the front steps without breaking his other leg.

The nearest pharmacy was several blocks away, and by the time he got there Ian’s hands and armpits felt bruised from the crutches. He kicked the door open moodily with his cast, ignoring the flash of pain. Ian was on painkillers, but his bipolar meds made them less effective. Fortunately his new job came with health insurance, but the co-pay on all his medication was going to eat up most of the money he had left.

“Let me get that,” someone said, grabbing the door before it could swing shut on him again. Ian looked up, about to say thanks, and saw a stunned face that he knew all too well.

“Hey,” he said stupidly.

“Fuck, you look terrible,” Trevor replied, and Ian actually saw him wince as he mentally kicked himself. “I mean, hi.”

Ian laughed, not offended. He hopped into the store so that Trevor could stop holding the door for him, and took a moment just to look at him. He looked good, with lean, defined muscles under a white T-shirt, his hair the usual lively mess of curls. He was still wearing his necklace, the charm standing out boldly against the canvas of his shirt.

“Well, at least one of us looks good,” Ian said, lightly flirting without really trying to. He was uncertain about where they stood now, given that the last time they’d soon each other was around the time that Ian went off the rails and blew up a van. 

“Don’t be offended. I was talking about the black eye and the broken leg. And the depression clothes. And the…” Trevor leaned in and sniffed pointedly. “Depression stank.”

“Fuck you,” Ian said good-naturedly, his nervousness easing. “You know how hard it is to shower with a broken leg?”

“I actually do. Story for another time. You picking up your meds?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighed.

“Me too.” Trevor held up a paper bag and shook it. “You hobbling off anywhere after this, or are you free to grab some coffee? Would be good to catch up.”

Ian’s mind immediately went to Mickey, and then immediately after went to _fuck Mickey._ Mickey was probably balls-deep in Byron right that very second. Ian didn’t have to feel guilty about getting coffee with an ex-boyfriend.

But he did feel guilty. Not so much for Mickey, but for Trevor, who’d already been messed around by Ian way too much. The guilt ate away at him as he watched Trevor go up to the Starbucks counter to get their coffees, and Trevor had barely gotten the words _how have you been?_ out before Ian blurted out, “My boyfriend just broke up with me.”

Trevor’s bushy eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “I was going to ask about prison but, uh, that sounds like it sucks too.”

“Sorry,” Ian said, wincing. “I just… we’re getting coffee, and I didn’t want you to think…”

“That this was a date?” Trevor interrupted, sounding maybe just a little pissed off, but mostly amused. “Thanks for warning me, I was literally just about to jump you.”

“Alright, alright…”

“In fact, can you pay me back for the coffee? I bought it under false pretenses…”

Ian dropped his face into his hands and groaned, but he was laughing too. The first time he’d laughed since before he and Mickey had gone to City Hall. He felt like the huge weight on his shoulders had been lifted just a little.

He caught Trevor up on everything - prison, Mickey’s surprise arrival, Paula making his life hell, the panicked proposal, Mickey punching him and the fall down the stairs. At that last part he saw the corners of Trevor’s mouth tighten, like he was holding himself back from commenting. The restraint didn’t last long.

“Look, I’m only saying this because we’re… friends. Right?”

“Right,” Ian confirmed, though he hadn’t been certain of it until Trevor said it.

“So, as your friend, I feel like I should tell you that getting back together with a guy who punches you in the face and breaks your leg…”

“It was an accident! He didn’t mean to,” Ian interrupted, realizing as he did so that he sounded like the ultimate battered wife stereotype. “I’ve punched him too,” he attempted to clarify. “We punch each other sometimes.”

“Wow, you’re really selling me on this relationship. I’m rooting for you guys,” Trevor said drily. Then he shrugged, leaning back into the booth. “Sorry. I know it’s not really my business. I’m still in momma hen mode from work.”

They talked about Trevor’s job for a while, and Ian asked after the at-risk teens (some of them were no longer at-risk, and some of them were no longer teens). It was nice to have something to take his mind off Mickey. And yeah, OK, it also felt good to be sitting and having coffee with a hot guy instead of moping around at home. Some mean, vindictive part of Ian hoped that Mickey would walk by the window at that exact second and get a taste of his own medicine.

After about half an hour Trevor checked his watch and said he had to get back to work. “But I was thinking of hitting the clubs with some friends tonight if you want to tag along?”

“Can’t really dance right now,” Ian said, gesturing his head at his crutches.

“Oh right. Shit. Well, there’s also a house party on if you want to sit on a couch and get stoned off someone else’s stash?”

“That actually sounds good.” Well. It had to beat sitting on his own couch and getting stoned off Lip’s stash.

* * *

Ian did shower before the party, his cast awkwardly sealed up with a bunch of grocery bags and some duct tape. He gelled his hair, put on deodorant and a tight shirt, and even snagged some of Debbie’s concealer to cover up his black eye. 

_And just who the fuck are you trying to impress?_ asked a familiar voice inside his head. Ian stubbornly ignored it.

Trevor picked him up, still driving the same horrible mess of a car, and still driving like a lunatic. He had changed since earlier in the day, now wearing a button-down shirt without many of the buttons done up. He let Ian lean on him while getting his crutches out of the car, and Ian couldn't help but breathe in the smell of him. Trevor’s years on testosterone meant that he had that unmistakable guy smell mixed in with his aftershave - that rich, musky scent that was kind of like a locker room, but not gross. Or maybe it was gross, objectively, but Ian’s dumb gay brain interpreted it as hot, his stomach warming up a little with interest.

 _Mickey,_ Ian’s dumb gay brain reminded him, and the warmth fizzled out.

Most of the people at the party were LGBTQ, from what Ian could tell, but aside from Trevor there wasn’t anyone that he knew. They weren’t in a fancy neighborhood, but the house was pretty big, with the dining room table shoved aside to make a dance floor and the living room seemingly designated as the chillout room - a large bong being passed around, and a girl with a buzz cut playing the acoustic guitar. 

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Trevor said. “Vodka soda?”

“Just a coke.” Ian wasn’t about to fuck with his meds by drinking alcohol - not when he’d just gotten out of a long, booze-free stint in prison and was a guaranteed lightweight.

Trevor left and Ian stood awkwardly in the corner of the room. He could feel eyes on him - whether because of his broken leg or his tight shirt was hard to tell - but didn’t go out of his way to make conversation. He was thinking of asking if he could get in on the bong when the door opened and two more people walked in.

Ian’s stomach dropped as all of the anger and misery and frustration and, yes, longing came rushing back. It was Byron and Mickey. Of all the fucking house parties in Chicago, they had to come to this one.

Mickey was casting his eyes around the room, looking decidedly unimpressed, when he spotted Ian staring stupidly at him from the corner. His face rapidly shifted from surprise to a flicker of softness to a smug, plastered-on smirk, and he grabbed Byron by the hips, tugging him close. Byron, who had been trying to greet some friends, looked exasperated as Mickey spun him around and began gratuitously sucking face with him. The circle of stoners stared at them, fascinated by the sudden extreme PDA.

Mickey opened his eyes and caught Ian’s gaze, and Ian looked away angrily, his blood boiling. He needed to get out of there. He couldn’t sit in this room all night watching Mickey dry hump some twink. He…

“Hey, Gia’s in the kitchen, she says to get your butt in there so she can say hi.” 

Suddenly there was a red plastic cup in Ian’s hand and Trevor was in front of him, smiling. Ian shifted his focus from the other side of the room to Trevor’s face, though he still saw Mickey abruptly freezing with his tongue still in Byron’s mouth.

“God, yes,” Ian blurted out, grabbing his crutches. 

Trevor looked taken aback. “Wow, I didn’t know you and Gia were so close.”

“We’re not, I’ll explain later,” Ian sighed. “Let’s just get out of this fucking room.”

He hopped towards the kitchen, wobbling a little with leftover fury, and as they left he felt Trevor’s hand on his back, steadying him.

* * *

“Of all the fucking house parties in Chicago.”

“That’s what I fucking said!” Ian frowned. “Well, that’s what I thought, anyway.”

They were lying on the grass in the back yard, smoking weed and looking up at the stars. Ian’s head was pleasantly fuzzy already, and as he shifted around he became temporarily obsessed with the way the blades of grass felt against his bare arms.

“I’d offer to take you home, but I’m way too stoned to drive right now.”

“Oh yeah, because you’re such a great driver the rest of the time,” Ian joked. He stretched his arms up over his head. “No. Fuck him, _fuck him_. I’m not leaving because of him and fucking Barry.”

“Byron,” Trevor corrected, passing the joint to Ian. Trevor actually knew Byron, through their mutual friend who had thrown the house party. When Ian had asked what Trevor thought of him, Trevor had just wrinkled his nose.

“Barry, Byron, Mickey doesn’t give a shit what his name is. This whole thing’s so fucking stupid. ‘Love of my life’ my ass.” With a sluggish swoop of guilt, Ian covered his face with his hands. “Fuck. Sorry. I need to stop dumping my relationship shit on you. That’s not cool.”

“Hey,” Trevor said, nudging Ian with his elbow. “We’re friends. Friends dump their relationship shit on each other.”

“But we… you know. It’s weird.”

“It would be weird if I was still pining after you, which I’m not,” Trevor said, the weed making him even blunter than usual. “No offense, Red, but dating you was kind of a fucking nightmare.” He laughed croakily. “Not going down that road again.”

Ian laughed too. In his stoned state, Trevor telling him he was a fucking nightmare to date was hilarious. He passed the joint back.

Trevor let his head loll over to face Ian, and Ian mirrored him. Despite what they’d just agreed upon, staring into Trevor’s face he felt that stirring in his stomach again, his old attraction resurfacing despite the fact that he was still hopelessly, stupidly, eternally in love with Mickey.

Trevor’s gaze briefly darted past Ian, then back again. “Hey,” he said, lifting the last tiny stub of the joint to his lips. “Let’s share it.”

Understanding his meaning after a second or two, Ian shuffled closer until his lips were at risk of being burned by the joint’s cherry. Trevor took a long pull that finally killed it, threw the remains away into the grass, held the smoke in his lungs for a second or two, and then gently breathed it into Ian’s mouth. Ian breathed in, feeling the second hand smoke fill his lungs, and fighting down his fuzzy, weed-horny urge to close the gap between them.

Trevor grinned at him. “You’re welcome,” he said huskily.

“Hmmm?”

A pair of boots suddenly stomped past Ian’s head, making him jump. He looked up in time to see Mickey stalking across the grass, tension clear in his shoulders, his fists clenched. He grabbed hold of Byron, who had been happily enjoying a drink with his friends, and though Ian couldn’t hear their conversation it was clear that Mickey was insisting on leaving.

Ian sat up awkwardly, pulling up the knee that wasn’t in a cast and resting his arms on it. Mickey threw a backwards glance at him as he dragged Byron back into the house, and for a second their eyes locked. 

Mickey had a terrible poker face. Rage and hurt were painted all over it, restrained only by the gears that Ian could see turning in his head, reminding Mickey of the game they were playing - that he and Ian were broken up, that he was in love with Byron - which meant that Ian could lie in the grass sharing blow back with another guy and Mickey couldn’t say shit about it. And in that moment Ian wanted to grab him and shake him and scream, _stop it, just stop this, what the fuck are we doing?_

But then Mickey turned away again, and a few seconds later he was gone.

Ian looked back at Trevor, who was smirking broadly.

“I told you Mickey went to prison, right?”

“So did you,” Trevor countered.

“And that he was in a Mexican cartel?”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“And you think it’s a good idea to put yourself at the top of his hit list?”

“Listen, Red, I came out to my Catholic grandmother. My _Italian_ Catholic grandmother. When I was _sixteen._ Nothing scares me any more.”

Ian huffed out a disbelieving laugh at Trevor’s balls and lay back down on the grass. Despite the fact that he’d probably just fucked things up between him and Mickey even more, he felt the anxiety of it quickly easing. Some way, somehow, he knew that he and Mickey were going to end up back together.

They always did.


End file.
